Rafe's Redemption

Maggie wanted freedom, not a lover…

Oh, Lord. He was going to kiss her. She shouldn’t want this. She was confused enough. Respectable women didn’t kiss men they barely knew, certainly not men who made them have wild, exotic dreams.

It was crazy. He was making her want crazy things.

Making her not give a damn about her reputation or her virginity. Or her long-awaited freedom. A ll she could think about was that dream, and the way his sinful mouth had felt. The table was only a step away, and honey was just as sweet as peach juice…

She swallowed hard and looked up into his hooded eyes.

“Maggie,” he groaned. “Don’t be scared. I’d never hurt you.”

Her mouth parted to object, but firm lips covered hers, hungry, demanding. She gasped, shocked at his hunger, but even more at the illicit response coursing through her. A n aching heat unfurled low in her stomach, pulsed between her legs. Oh, yes. It started just like in the dream.

He deepened the kiss, coaxed her lips with his warm tongue. Long, languid strokes teased the inside of her mouth, encouraging, tempting before he pulled back to nibble the corners of her lips.

Oh, God. Is this what all kisses felt like? Hot, lethargic? Melting her like molasses over warm bread?

“Kiss me, Maggie,” he breathed.

PRA ISE FOR A UTHOR

Jennifer Jakes

A ND HER BOOKS

RA FE’S REDEMPTION

“A delicious debut! With pages so hot, this book nearly melted in my hands.”

~Kimberly Killion, RITA nominated and

award-winning author

Rafe’s Redemption

by

Jennifer Jakes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Rafe’s Redemption

COPYRIGHT Ó 2011 by Jennifer Jakes

A ll rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected] Cover A rt by A ngela A nderson

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

A dams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

Publishing History

First Scarlet Rose Edition, February 2011

Print ISBN 1-60154-936-9

Published in the United States of A merica
Dedication

To my husband, Glenn.

Thanks for keeping the faith.

Thanks Mom, for passing down

the creative gene.

Thanks Barb and Sara A nn,

critique partners extraordinaire.

Thanks MORWA ,

the best RWA chapter ever.

November 1866—Western Colorado Territory When they got back to St. Louis, she was going to kill him.

“Maggie!” Michael’s footsteps thundered down the hall.

Her stomach churned at the urgency in her cousin’s voice. She fingered the necklace hidden in the pleats of her thick velvet skirt. She wouldn’t give him the locket, even though the heavy gold might be all that stood between her and starvation. A t the rate Michael gambled, there’d be nothing left of their shared inheritance.

She perched on the edge of the moth-eaten mattress, then stood, then sat and wrung her hands. A ll she’d wanted was to capture the western landscape with her sketches. How had the journey to California gone so wrong?

“Maggie!”

That’s how. Michael’s drinking and gambling had plagued the entire trip, despite his promises to change.

“Goddamn it! A flush. A fucking flush.” One heated curse after another echoed down the corridor. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she braced for his anger.

He had not changed. The devil himself would make a better traveling companion.

Michael flung open her hotel door, slamming it against the rough plank wall. Drunken voices floated up from the bar room, cries for whiskey and women, crude, coarse words that flooded her face with heat. Never had she imagined such an uncivilized place existed.

He stomped toward her, his once impeccable shirt wrinkled and stained. “Get up,” he snarled. “Now!” Maggie clambered to her feet and faced him. How many steps would it take to reach the door? “If you’ve come for more valuables, there’s nothing left,” she lied, praying her voice didn’t give her away.

He gave a disgusted snort, then hung his blond head as if resigned to defeat. Despite her earlier thoughts about him, pity pricked her conscience and she stepped forward.

“Wrong,” he sneered, shoving her against the wall. “I have one more piece of property to sell.” The reek of whiskey assaulted her nose with each punctuated word.

“A nd it’s going to get me out of this hell hole in one piece.” His gaze roamed her body. Then he gave a satisfied smile. “A ren’t you?”

Her heart clattered to a stop. A wave of nausea rose in her throat. Dear God, he intended to pay his debt with her. She threw her body into his, heaving with all her strength. But he didn’t budge.

“Don’t be so eager, cousin,” he taunted. “We are going downstairs. There are some men who want to see you.”

“No!” Blood pounded in her ears. “Michael, don’t do this.” She planted her heels and twisted, trying to get away. Hard fingers bit into her flesh as he dragged her through the door, toward the narrow stairs. She clawed at his hand, pierced the skin with her nails, but he tightened his grip until cold numbness throbbed through her arm.

The necklace pressed hard against her waist as he forced her down the hall. There was no other way. She’d have to give him the locket. “Michael, wait! I have—” A vicious slap rattled her teeth, made the torn, dirty wallpaper dance before her eyes.

“Shut up.” His lips twisted into a cold grin. “It’s just a good thing I hadn’t killed you yet.”

Kill? Kill? The word crashed through her mind like a wave. What kind of monster had Michael become? Fear slithered down her spine. The deadly kind. He would kill her, then take the necklace.

She’d have to think of another way to escape.

“You might be stupid,” he continued as he pulled her down the stairs, “but at least you’re pretty. These backwoods simpletons only have the old whores who work here. The men will tear each other apart and pay top dollar to have you.”

The statement buckled her legs. Splinters pricked her cotton stockings as he dragged her across the stained saloon floor. “Slow down,” she begged. “Let me walk.” A nd think.

He stopped and twisted her arm behind her back, hard enough she climbed to her feet before the bones snapped.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” A nd why had she ever felt sorry for him?

“The money.” He shrugged. “Why else?”

“I’ll give you my share!” Poverty, dear God anything, was better than this.

“Generous, but too late, my dear.” He snatched a whiskey bottle from an empty table and gulped the amber remains. “But I’ll be sure and enjoy your half. I might even think of you while I spend it.” His smile froze.

“Now, get outside.”

Outside. Maybe she could break free and run, scream for help. There had to be someone in this town who would stop Michael.

She struggled for a calming breath, but gagged at the stench of unwashed bodies that hung in the smoky air. Two painted women sauntered from a back room, their expressions bored despite Michael’s abusive stance.

“Help me,” Maggie pleaded. “Get the sheriff.” The women’s raspy chuckles filled the room. “A in’t no law ‘round here, honey,” one drawled. “The men do what they want.”

No sheriff? What chance did she have without help?

Michael shoved her outside where light snow fell on the small crowd waiting in front of the saloon. Her boots slipped on the frozen boardwalk, but he jerked her upright. A hush fell over the men when she faced them.

Her heart skittered to a stop as she met their lustful stares.

“See, gentlemen, just as I promised,” Michael shouted, his voice belying panic. “There’s no need for a lynch rope. This woman is worth more than enough to pay off my debt.”

Whoops and yells filled the air as he pushed her onto a crate in front of the unpainted building.

Her limbs shook with fear, teetering the box beneath her feet. “Michael, don’t—”

He yanked her arm behind her back. “I will break it.

It makes no difference,” he hissed. “Your arm is not what they’re interested in.”

She swallowed hard and studied the sight before her

—her future. The men stood like cattle, ankle-deep in mud and mire. Long unkempt whiskers covered dirty faces, whiskers with pieces of their last meal still hanging in the hair. For one fleeting second, death seemed preferable to belonging to one of these filthy creatures.

She shuddered and looked from one end of the short street to the other. Where could she hide? Even if she could get away, it wouldn’t take the men long to search three buildings and a corral. There was no place to run, no place they couldn’t find her.

“Now, Zeke, how much is my total?” Michael asked the saloon proprietor as if settling a supper bill.

Zeke looked up from the paper he’d been figuring on. “You still owe three hundred seventy-five.”

“I already gave you all her jewelry and gowns!”

“A nd you still owe three seventy-five,” the big man growled as he reached for his gun.

Michael’s jaw twitched as he turned to the group and gave a tense smile. “Well, she’s worth at least that much, gentlemen.”

****

He turned as Tom, the owner, came back inside from counting Rafe’s pelts.

“Will there be enough to buy my supplies?”

“A w, sure. You had a good summer.” Tom moved to the stove and lifted a boiling pot.

“What’s going on over there?” Rafe pointed out the window, then accepted a cup of coffee.

“Stage busted a wheel yesterday. Come here to have the smithy look at it.” Tom wrapped his wrinkled hands around his cup and nodded to the street. “Some rich feller and his cousin had to put up at Zeke’s. Cecil told me the fool lost everythin’—and then some—playin’

cards.”

Rafe turned to look outside again, watching the group collect a length of rope. “They’re going to hang him?” A cold ache filled his gut. He’d never understand why some men took pleasure in killing.

“Reckon so.” Tom sipped his coffee. “I’ll go git your pelts now and start fillin’ your order.”

“No, let me get them for you.” Rafe set the dented tin cup on the rough wooden counter. “You can start gathering my supplies. A storm’s coming. I don’t want to spend the winter down here.”

He strode outside where a biting wind lifted his hat from his head. He pulled down the black felt and turned up his collar. Damn this blizzard. Those men were fools, standing in the cold when they should be headed home.

He reached for the first armload of pelts, but the roar of the crowd made him turn. No one swung from the hanging tree. What had the men so riled?

“One twenty-five!” a voice echoed down the muddy street.

A n auction? Whatever was being sold must be a rarity in these parts to bring that kind of money. Not that he cared. He didn’t need anything, rare or not. Still…he slopped through the mud for a peek at the commotion.

He stopped beside Cecil Two-Feathers as someone yelled one hundred fifty.

“What’s going on?”

Cecil shook his head. “Nothing good.” He nodded to the front of the crowd.

Rafe shouldered his way between two men, then moved toward the boardwalk. His gut clenched. Tom had said cousins; he hadn’t mentioned one was a young woman. A beautiful young woman. Lust shivered through him, hardened him.

Damn it, he couldn’t get involved. He’d do her more harm than good.

But seeing a woman being used like this pricked his conscience. Could he do nothing?

She stood on a broken crate, wide-eyed and trembling, a queen surrounded by swine. Her fine tailored traveling suit, her regal stature, both out of place in this ramshackle town.